He steps out of the limo, lithe and supple. He glides over the carpet. Slides between camera flashes. Pirouettes around questions. Its almost comical, the excessive grace with which he dances around the paparazzi. He pauses to wave at a cluster of middle-aged women. They shriek in delight. Then an arm winds its way around Read More

I’m donating parts of my body when I die, but I don’t want to donate the whole thing in case I become a body for medical students to practice on. I’ve heard rumours of the way they sometimes treat the bodies they work with and it isn’t pretty or dignified. I accept it shouldn’t matter Read More

It’s not the pen and ink drawing of the Sea Onion that interests me so much as the word squill. Squill sounds like a portmanteau word made from fusing together parts of existing words. Like “brunch” or “labradoodle”.  My lips form into a petulant pout when I say it aloud and the blend of squidand Read More

Silence echoes through the village. Eyes look down as I pass, like cars dipping headlights. It is dark. I see Johanna, my friend. Fingers on my arm. Her touch warms me. She looks to my side as if half-expecting Maria to be there. We don’t speak. My eyes follow a bird, a robin I think, Read More

Dear Mrs Brooksbank, You would be pleased to know that Allan Ramsay’s reputation endures.  His poetry is remembered on the wall of Greyfriars Kirk; his face gazes out fondly across Princes Street at pilgrims journeying through this city on their cultural quests. What was your connection to him? Were you, like him, a Stuart sympathiser.  Read More